


Reflected

by Kien Rugastelo (cein)



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Episode: s02e10 Mirror Mirror, Gen, Mind Meld
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 01:06:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14273610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cein/pseuds/Kien%20Rugastelo
Summary: McCoy wasn’t an idiot—would never have survived this long if he were—so he excused himself to sickbay neutrally, a vague excuse of dizziness from the difficult transport easing the separation from the pack as they broke up, each one slightly uneasy but hiding it well enough. The crew he passed were unarmed, smiling, laughing in joy and not contempt. They didn’t flinch away from his stride, did not warily eye him as he passed, but instead greeted him warmly, with affection.This was not the ISS Enterprise.





	Reflected

McCoy understood something was wrong the instant they materialized. So much was missing just from a glance. The terror that should have been on Kyle’s face at the botched transport he would surely be punished for was replaced by relief; the ever-present security guards that should have been in the room were suspiciously absent; and Spock’s face was clean—Spock himself, weaponless.

This was not the ISS Enterprise.

McCoy wasn’t an idiot—would never have survived this long if he were—so he excused himself to sickbay neutrally, a vague excuse of dizziness from the difficult transport easing the separation from the pack as they broke up, each one slightly uneasy but hiding it well enough. The crew he passed were unarmed, smiling, laughing in joy and not contempt. They didn’t flinch away from his stride, did not warily eye him as he passed, but instead greeted him warmly, with affection.

This was _not_ the ISS Enterprise.

When the sickbay door slid shut behind him and he verified there was no one to see his face, McCoy dropped the false geniality he had adopted over the course of the short walk, not having the energy for it and feeling the smile strain at his face. The Halkans did not have the necessary technology to pull a stunt like this, and neither did anyone else within a week’s warp of here.

And it felt real, McCoy mused, thumbing the acid stain on his workbench. Somehow, he doubted this stain had been acquired through as devious means as the matching one had been. This version of Enterprise was soft, gentle. The smiles and companionship seemed as though they belonged here, subtly mocking the crew he knew on his own ship. They would have never let their guards down in such a way—not in the face of the reality they’d been entrenched in.

The similarities were uncanny, though, and McCoy could not afford to dismiss them. It was a trick, or it was very, very real, and having no better plan, McCoy went along for the ride as long as he could, learning what he could, memorizing the files he had access to.. and some of the ones not intended for him.

If it was real, McCoy could understand how such a transposition was possible. It was as if his world and this one were entangled—so different, yet fated to experience the same events in a different light. The same crew members died on the same dates, of different circumstances. The same firefights were fought, with different reasons. The same damage was done, with entirely different causes. It was like looking into a mirror and seeing the light reflected back at you, McCoy thought, chuckling at how apt the metaphor was. If there was such thing as light and dark, then he was certainly from the darker side.

McCoy had the time to learn, but not hardly any time to plan. He was the closest to the brig and the security wing, and so he was the first captured and the first to arrive. McCoy let the guards take him without a fight, seeing no point in a struggle. There were no agony booths here, no crew that would size him up for hints of weakness, no threat of being blown out into space like so much debris.

Scott arrived next, stinking of drink and limping, screaming obscenities at everyone involved. McCoy understood instantly how their cover had been blown. It seemed wiser to be of an accord, however, instead of the odd man out—the only one calm and the only one who would be accused of orchestrating this grand event later—and McCoy quickly riled himself up, cursing and threatening by the time Kirk was dragged in, furious and fighting every step of the way.

Spock, ever logical, was unaffected. He was the same as ever in either universe, absolutely parallel.

Kirk was questioned first, then returned to a different cell. Their tempers had all cooled by then, simmering down into something more quietly dangerous. Uhura and Scott schemed in the corner, and McCoy sat, biding his time in silence. Scott went next, being returned to Kirk’s cell after, then Uhura. It seemed their captors didn’t see any risk in allowing them to collaborate after interrogation.

When the guard fetched McCoy, he went easily again, head held high, exuding control over the situation in every step. These people wouldn’t harm him—wouldn’t even threaten to. He was safer here than anywhere he had ever been in his life.

So when he was brought into the conference room, across the table from Spock, he settled into the chair like a king upon his throne. Spock dismissed the guard with a nod, measuring McCoy, observing coolly.

“Where is Dr McCoy?” Spock began evenly, a perfect echo of McCoy’s own Spock, just like everything else on this Enterprise had been.

“He’s right here, Mr Spock,” McCoy replied, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Spock was visibly unaffected. “How is it you came aboard this ship?”

“I was beamed here,” McCoy answered matter-of-factly.

If Spock was frustrated by his cooperation, it did not show. “How is it you were able to access Dr McCoy’s files?”

McCoy scientifically ached to understand just how far the similarities went, and suddenly the biggest threat his own Spock would have held over him seemed to be the only way to truly discover the truth of it all. “Why don’t you come over here and find out?” McCoy asked in return, tapping a finger to his head.

“Such contact would be inappropriate,” Spock dismissed, but not quickly.

Spock had at least considered it, McCoy knew, and he pressed on smoothly. “Everything you want to know is right up here for the taking. All you gotta do is reach on in.” And this Spock would do just that, McCoy suspected, without the violence his own would have employed. This Spock wouldn’t use that kind of force, and McCoy sweetened the deal just a little more: “You want your doctor back, and I’m not saying no.”

Spock stared across the table at him for a full minute, likely debating internally whether this was some kind of trap. Less than that, it was a calculated risk on McCoy’s part. Telepathic contact with Vulcans wasn’t always traumatic, and he had a hunch that this Spock would go to great pains to ensure that it wasn’t. McCoy would get his insight, Spock would get his answers. They’d both win—a fair trade.

When Spock reached forward, McCoy didn’t flinch.

* * *

It was less like a crash and more like being wrapped in a blanket. McCoy had expected a quick, surgical penetration where he would only have mere moments to gather the intel he desired before Spock scooped out what he wanted and left with hardly a trace, much more gentle than the all-encompassing destruction his own Spock wrought to ensure the victim was perfectly pliant and a non-threat in the end.

Instead, it felt more as if his mind had been surrounded by Spock, gently holding then seeping in through the cracks in McCoy’s mental barriers, filling the spaces the McCoy had left open and ready for Spock’s access. Spock wandered his mind, warm and thick, examining thoughts and memories, and discarding the ones he was not interested in. McCoy’s secret places were like hastily boarded windows—largely ineffective in truth though obvious in meaning—and Spock bypassed them, looking instead of his answers.

McCoy found that while the tactics were quite different, this was indeed the same Spock. He had not the motivations of his own, and so saw no need to devastate and harm. It would have simply been inefficient to incapacitate McCoy, and more than slightly distasteful, and so he did not. But his thoughts ran the same, his logical processes were identical—a perfect parallel, different only in circumstance.

Spock, enlightened, withdrew, and McCoy clung to him as he left, the emotional transference dangling between them like spider-silk.

It was difficult to breathe around just how implausibly different such similar lives could be, but McCoy managed.

“I am sorry,” Spock offered, and sounded like he meant it. He flipped the comm on the table. “Spock to Chekov. Report to engineering. We haven’t much time.”

No, McCoy supposed, they really didn’t.

* * *

Four minutes later had McCoy still dazed on the transporter pad, Spock ignoring Kirk’s taunts stoically. His Spock would never have tolerated it so easily, but this world granted him more leeway, and the assurance that his own team would likely be returning shortly was probably no small comfort.

McCoy took one last look at this calm world—this gentle world he was now forced to leave behind. He gazed out at everything that could, and everything that wasn’t, and fought to keep his face blank for fear of showing the weakness of his heart.

This Spock faded away to be replaced by one with a beard, sealing him away forever.

McCoy took a breath, faced the reality of his situation, and stepped off the transporter pad.


End file.
